Chapter 4
Dirty old. men have a kind of radar that leads them unerringly to where pretty young girls gather. This facility was well developed in Roger Dutton. Stored away in the back of his mind were a million clues, a million tiny memories of where he might find his prey. He collected them while walking through the streets, talking with friends and customers, reading magazines and newspapers. He also did a lot of thinking about the subject.
Over the years, Roger had found a number of places where young girls congregated. There were some obvious places in the list---high schools either before opening or after closing (also high school athletic fields in the middle of the school day); drugstores, restaurants or other teenage hangouts; YWCAs; small town swimming pools or tennis courts in the summer; ice skating rinks in the winter; movies, especially movies starring the latest heartthrob; teenage boutiques; certain department stores---well, you get the idea.
Lately, one bit of information had been whirling around in Roger's mind with increasing insistence. It was a story---really several stories---about run-away teenage girls". They'd been gathering in New York's "East Village," one of the nation's leading hippie---druggie hangouts, a former slum filled with cheap, dirty apartments and lined with the kind of stores that appealed to this breed of teenager-shops that sold drug-related items, such as pipes, rolling machines and cigarette papers; or hand-made leather goods-sandals, belts, vests and the like; health food stores; used clothing shops.
According to the newspaper stories Roger Dutton read with increasing interest, teenage girls from all over the country were drawn to the East Village like a magnet. The reporter speculated that they went because they were revolting against harsh parental authority, because they were looking for drugs, or because they were seeking adventure. Whatever the reason for their arrival, what happened to them in the East Village wasn't always pleasant, the newspaper story said. They were frequently robbed. They often had trouble finding a place to sleep. They couldn't always get something to eat. Some were raped. Some drifted into prostitution. Others became beggars.
Parents did everything possible to find their young, runaway daughters. They advertised in underground newspapers, they offered rewards, they hired private detectives, they made frequent, impassioned calls to the local police. Sometimes, the families were reunited, sometimes not. All too often, the girls weren't seen again until years later.
Roger wasn't very much impressed by the emotional aspects of all this. He couldn't have cared less if parents and daughters were reunited. He didn't even have a great deal of sympathy for the girls who went wrong once they got to the big city. Those were the breaks.
What did interest him was the thought of all of those lovely young things wandering the streets, unattached---and unguarded. What's more, he thought, they were in need, usually financial need. How easy it would be, he mused, to offer one of them a few dollars, a meal and a place to sleep. And how easy it would be to fuck them in such circumstances. How could they resist? Why would they fight?
One day, one of these newspaper articles on runaway teenage girls was illustrated by a photograph of the East Village. Three different young girls were in view, two of them quite pretty, looking bewildered and helpless, way beyond their depth. They needed help. Roger resolved, then and there, to see what he could do.
Now Roger Dutton wasn't the kind of man who normally frequented the East Village. He was a beer and whiskey man, not a grass and cocaine type. He didn't go for those shabby clothes. He didn't even much care for those broad, brightly colored ties, flare bottom pants, long sideburns or long hair. He was on the wrong side of the generation gap and he didn't mind admitting it. In fact, that was one of the things that made his preoccupation as exciting as it was.
Nevertheless, Roger decided to go wandering in the East Village. He knew he would feel out of place, but that location had something he wanted: young girls just waiting to be taken. For a time, Roger considered going in his old clothes, even buying some of the new "groovy" outfits, so that he wouldn't look so out of place. Then, he realized that this was exactly the wrong tactic. What he needed to do was look like a rich Sugar Daddy. Then, he reasoned, they'd come to him.
If it weren't for his imagination, Roger might never have done it. Such a venture took a bit of courage. Roger didn't have much of that. What he had---and in excess---was lust. When he got excited enough, there wasn't anything he wouldn't try.
One morning, his wife out shopping, he lay in bed imagining a visit to the East Village. What would he find there---a young waif like blonde, scared and virginal, ready for the plucking? Or would it be a blue-eyed brunette who was worldly wise, who knew what he was after and was more than willing to give it to him? He lay there and played with his cock as he thought about it. Soon, his wang was hard and quivering. In his mind's eye, he was ramming it again and again into some young thing, preferably a protesting innocent creature who, in the normal course of events, might have remained a virgin until marriage. Time and again, Roger approached that delightful moment of no return, only to restrain his busy hand at the last possible second. He didn't want to shoot off today---at least not yet. He wanted to be just as randy as possible. For today was the day he was going to visit this new hunting ground.
Now he was being pulled in two directions. The first was to finish off what he was doing now, to play with himself until he reached a climax, until he shot off allover the sheets. The second was to "drop his cock and grab his socks," as they say in the army, to get dressed and head for the East Village. Bit by bit, the latter idea grew in strength.
Finally, Roger bounded out of bed, his pulse racing, his mind whirring with fantasies. He went to the closet and pulled out his best suit, his wildest tie---which wasn't saying much---and a nice blue shirt. He shaved carefully and powdered his face. He combed his hair carefully, so the spot where it was getting thin wouldn't show. Then, he got dressed. By now, it was 9:30. He knew teenage girls. It wasn't much use looking for them before 10:30 or so. Of course, the runaways might be different. They might be out scavenging early in the morning. Who could tell?
He got into a cab in Flushing. It would cost three or four dollars, but it was worth it. Some days, the subway was just too much for Roger. Especially when it wasn't filled to the brim.
"Where to, buddy?" the cab driver said. He sounded weary of life itself.
"The East Village, please."
"The East Village? Where in the East Village?"
"Ah, well, why don't you take me right to the middle."
"The middle? You mean St. Marks Place and Second Ave.?"
"Yeah," Roger said, "that's fine."
The cab started off with a jerk, pushing Roger rudely back into the seat. It bounced over the rough roads at about 40 mph. But that didn't bother Roger much. He was feeling his oats. He had an adventure ahead of him.
"Beautiful day," he finally said, deciding to make conversation.
"Yeah," the cabbie said. "Good day for a swimming pool."
"You like to go swimming, eh?"
"No," the cabbie said sarcastically, "I prefer driving a hack."
Roger nodded. "I understand."
"Listen," the cabbie said, "mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Go ahead."
"Well, you know, the East Village. I don't ever remember taking a guy like you to the East Village. You got business there?"
"Not exactly."
"Listen, if I'm getting out of line, just say so."
"No, not at all."
"You looking for someone. Maybe you're a private dick."
Roger snorted.
"You a parent, looking for a runaway kid?"
"No," Roger said, smiling to himself, "not exactly."
The cabbie shot a glance back at Roger, via the mirror. "Oh," he said, "I get it. You're looking for some action."
"I guess you could say that," Roger said.
"Listen, buddy," said the cabbie, "if you want action, there are better places than the East Village."
"How so?"
"Well, I know some really hot chicks. Cheap, too."
"Sorry, not interested."
"Don't make up your mind so quick," the cabbie said. "Those chicks are really built. This early in the day, you could probably get two for the price of one, if you know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean. But I'm not really interested?"
"Too bad, too bad. You won't find nearly the quality in the East Village."
"Really?"
"`Sure. There's no money around there. The best hookers stay away. All you get is a few scabby-looking types. Sure way to get crabs. Or worse."
Roger nodded. "I'm not interested in them, either."
"Oh," the cabbie said, the light dawning. "Now I understand. You like cowboys. You're looking for a guy wearing boots. I know the type."
"Now listen here---!"
"No skin off my back," the cabbie said reassuringly. "Live and let live, I always say."
"You can think what you want," Roger said, now a bit angry, "but I'm no fag."
"Whatever you say, Mac."
They crossed over the 59th street bridge and into Manhattan. Traffic was terrible, but there wasn't any conversation in the cab, not for quite a while.
"You into drugs?" the cabbie asked. He seemed thoroughly puzzled.
"Nope. I like scotch."
"Yeah."
"Can't make me out, can you?"
"As a matter of fact, no."
"You always try to size up your fares?"
"Yeah. It's an occupational disease. And you puzzle me."
The cab rumbled over New York's potholes, the cabbie skillfully weaving it through the stream of Traffic as if it were a fast fish swimming through a school of dawdlers. Roger watched the passing parade from the back seat of the cab. New York, as usual, was filled with people bustling from store to store and building to building. Among them, of course, was a fair sprinkling of young ladies, dressed as girls in New York will dress on a warm summer day---in the shortest skirts the law allows, the most transparent blouses, whatever bras they owned back home in the dresser drawer.
Watching the girls walk down the street, their tits bouncing with each step, Roger began once more to remember the purpose of his mission this day. The cabbie's nosy questions began to fade away. There was that insistent tingling in his loins once more. Roger put his hand in his lap to help a little.
The cab was. heading down Second Ave. now, in the 30s, past antique shops and brick high rise apartment houses and pizza parlors. The cobblestone road was very uneven and Roger was getting quite a jouncing.
At 14th Street, they passed by a series of low-income apartment houses. "We're getting close," the cabbie said.
"So I see."
The neighborhood was getting visibly poorer now. Roger saw hippies on the sidewalks, shuffling along as if they had all day to get where they were going, which they probably did. Here and there, he saw a young girl walking along-exactly the sort of creature he was looking for.
"Driver," he said, "this will be line."
"Right here? Right side or left?"
"Ah, left."
The cab pulled over. Roger reached into his pocket and took out a $5 bill. He opened the door and handed the money to the cabbie.
"Whatever you're looking for, buddy, I hope you find it."
"Thanks. No sweat."
He pulled himself out of the narrow cab door and hopped out onto the curb, excited and anxious, his eyes darting around the sidewalk like a game hunter looking for a deer.
What Roger saw bothered him a great deal. The streets were literally filled with people, many of them young girls. Too many of them. How was he to choose among them? What was he to say?
Roger watched the cab pull away and felt for a moment as though he was stranded in a foreign land. At that moment, a young, dark-haired teenager girl in a purple and red tie-died shirt walked by and Roger was reminded of his purpose. The girl had a vacant look to her eyes, but her face was pretty and from those jiggling points visible beneath her shirt, it was clear that she was braless.
"Excuse me," Roger said impulsively, "is this the center of the East Village?"
The girl stopped and regarded him as if he were a creature from some other planet. "You straight?" she asked.
"Pardon?"
"You playing some kind of a game?"
"No, no," Roger said hastily, "just asking for directions. You see, I'm a tourist and I was told I'd find the East Village very interesting."
"Right," the girl said. She didn't seem to believe a word he was saying.
"You see," Roger went on, "I'm from Des Moines, Iowa."
"Iowa?" The girl's eyes lit up. "Isn't that where they have fields and fields of grass?"
"Grass?"
"You know, pot." She spat the last word out contemptuously.
"Oh. I do think I've heard something like that," Roger said.
"Well now, you want to know where the center of the East Village is, right?"
"Right."
The girl's hair was cut in a shag. Her eyes were light blue and her skin almost olive. It was a striking combination. She stood, Roger estimated, just a shade over five feet tall. It he hadn't have talked to her, Roger might have guessed the girl's age at 14. Now, he thought she could be. anywhere from 16 on up to 20. She had a certain confidence that was rare in 14-year-olds.
While he was sizing her up, Roger realized, she was sizing him up. Evidently, he passed whatever test she had in mind. "Tell you what," she said, "I'll give you a tour."
"You will?"
"Sure, for a price."
"What's the price?"
"Five dollars."
Roger hesitated a moment. He knew he was negotiating for something other than a tour of the East Village. Besides, if he made a deal with her, that would be it for the day. Was this the girl he wanted? He gazed at her, trying to decide. She was slender, but she had a good figure. She seemed sophisticated---perhaps too sophisticated. He needed more time to make up his mind.
"Well," he said, "I have about an hour. Would that be time enough."
"You're the boss," the girl said, holding out her hand. Roger put a five dollar-bill in it and was rewarded with what was definitely a seductive look in return.
"My name is Roger," he said, smiling at the girl.
"I'm Karen," she said, smiling back. "Shall we begin the tour?"
Roger nodded and they were off.
For the best part of an hour, Roger and Karen walked around the East Village. Through it all, Dutton was treated to a very knowledgeable recounting of what the place was all about. Karen showed him where the big dope transactions took place, where the big busts had occurred, where Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman lived, where there were communes, where the acid freaks hung out, etc.
"You seem to have lived here quite a while, Karen," Roger said.
The pretty young girl shrugged. "A few months."
"Where did you live before that?"
"New Jersey," she said, without thinking. Then, "Are you a cop?"
"Nope."
"Private fuzz?"
"Nope. Just a tourist, like I said."
She seemed mollified.
"How old are you?"
"Twenty," the girl said.
"How old?"
She smiled up at him. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Fifteen."
"You don't seem fifteen."
She shrugged again. "You learn."
With every word the girl said, Roger found her more and more attractive and vulnerable. The sophistication, he saw, was largely surface veneer. Underneath, she seemed small and scared. There was a definite sensation in his cock.
"What are you going to do with the $5?"
"Pay rent."
"What do you do to eat?"
"Usually I eat with friends. Sometimes I do an odd job or two for one of the head shops. You know, like make hash pipes out of glass. That sort of thing."
Roger nodded. "What would life be like for you if someone gave you $50?"
"Oh wow," the girl said, breaking into a broad smile. "That would be like the sun rising. It would mean I didn't have to worry about a thing for a month or more."
Roger pulled out his wallet and ostentatiously withdrew two crisp twenties and a ten. He seemed about to hand the bills to the girl, who looked at them as though they were manna from heaven. Then he hesitated a moment.
"There is one spot in the village I haven't seen yet."
"What?"
"Your pad." He said it with the sweetest smile he could manage.
"Oh," she said, "I understand. I'd be happy to show you my pad, but I should tell you that I have some roommates who may show up after a while."
"Roommates?"
"A girl and a guy."
"Would that matter?"
"I guess not," the girl said. "If you don't mind."
"Might be fun," Roger said, his cock swelling to the thought of a foursome, possibly with some switches involved.
"Okay," said Karen, "let's go."
She waited a minute for Roger to hand her the money, then they were off.
Karen's pad was a fourth-floor walk up on 3rd Street, not far from First Avenue. It took all of live minutes to walk there, during which time the fantasies that leaped through Roger's brain had given him a thunderingly large erection. Together, they walked up the four flights of stairs, an exercise that normally would have cooled of Roger Dutton, but this day affected him hardly at all. Karen flipped out a couple of keys and unlocked her door. They walked into a small, dark series of rooms, sparsely but decently. furnished, considering the building and the circumstances. The girl switched on a light, then turned to her "tourist" friend.
"It's not much," she said apologetically.
"I think it's sort of cozy," Roger said, moving close to the young girl.
For just an instant, there was flat-out fear in her eyes. But it melted away with Roger's gentle smile. He reached one hand out and touched her cheek, wishing he could simply grab the girl and tear her clothing off. She received his touch without flinching, but without responding positively, either.
Roger moved closer to the young girl, who stood waiting for whatever he was going to do. He put his arms around her and drew her close to him, squashing her tits against his chest, pushing his pelvis into the cavity between her legs. Both of them were breathing hard by this time.
For a moment, they stood there, Roger gently rubbing against Karen's trembling young body. Then he released her and stood away for an instant. She looked at him, puzzled.
"I'll go, if you want," Roger offered. He seemed sure of her response.
Karen cocked her head quizzically. "There's no reason for that," she said softly.
Once more, he put his arms around the girl. This time, he was even more blatant about showing his sexual desires. And this time, the young girl responded to him, arching her body against his, pressing her pussy against his huge hard-on. For a while, they humped together, Roger feeling his erection grow to unheard-of lengths.
Once more, he released the girl. But this time, he had no intention of giving her an out. Instead, he reached for her tie-dyed T-shirt. She held her arms over her head and he slipped it off. Then he stood back and gazed.
Karen had those wonderfully firm tits found almost exclusively on girls 17 and under. They simply stood ` straight out, like little round pyramids. Karen's tits weren't large, by any means. They were small, in fact, but full of promise. After all, the girl was just 15. What was remarkable was her skin, which was smooth and flawless. Roger longed to touch it, and, finding himself with the desire, satisfied it. He ran his hands down her throat, over her chest and ended up cupping her tits.
Karen responded instantly to Roger's touch, drawing in her breath sharply. He didn't take his hands away immediately, but started toying with the girl's nipples. Olive-skinned people usually have dark nipples and Karen was no exception. Her entire aureole area was a rich chocolate-brown and the nipple itself was barely lighter.
As Roger played with the girl's boobs, the nipples began to grow. Soon, they were poking out like little door-bell buttons. Roger's cock had also grown with the stimulation it had received. It was so big now that it was pressing uncomfortably against the material of his pants.
For a moment, Roger tore his gaze away from the young girl and began to undress, starting with his jacket. He practically ripped it off. Then, he jerked off his tie. By the time he got to his shirt, there were small warm fingers helping him out, fumbling with the buttons.
Roger, with foresight, had worn no undershirt. When his shirt was gone, he once more took the young girl in his arms and held her close, moving his chest back and forth against her swollen nipples, causing her to moan with pleasure.
Then, again, he backed away and started working on his belt. Karen helped, pulling his belt free. He managed to grab the tab of his zipper and open his fly. After a few more moments, he'd slipped out of his pants. His cock was sticking straight out, curved like a scimitar, aching to cut a swath through Karen's cunt hair and into her tunnel of love.
Naked now, Roger started on Karen, quickly stripping her faded, ragged blue jeans from her body, pulling oil her shoes and socks. In a few more moments, they were both bare, standing fact to face. The girl was little more than a waif, now that she was naked. If it weren't for her perfect little tits, her luminous skin and her remarkably narrow waist, she might have seemed so slender as to be scrawny. Instead, she seemed almost angelically feminine.
Once more, Roger pulled the young girl to him. There was no resistance on her part. On the contrary. She melted in to him, pressing her tits into his rough hairy chest pushing her pelvis against his enormous erection.
"Where's the bedroom?" he whispered.
The girl giggled. "We have a mattress in this room and one in the other room. I guess they're both bedrooms." Roger looked around and spotted a double-sized mattress lying on the floor, a couple of dirty sheets tangled up on top of it. He slowly half-walked, half-danced the girl toward the mattress, lowering her gently to the surface.
They were both lying down now and Roger was fondling Karen's young body, running his hands over her erect nipples, sliding them down her astonishingly smooth belly-flesh into the tangle of soft cunt hair at the apex of her legs. At his touch, the girl moaned softly and wiggled her ass prettily.
Suddenly, Roger felt small warm fingers surrounding his cock and tickling his balls. There was a sudden leap of passion in his prick. Karen had made a fist of her fingers, with his dick inside and she was slowly but firmly pumping up and down in a motion calculated to turn him on, as if he wasn't already.
Now Roger's fingers pushed through the girl's cunt hair until they found her slippery little clit. With a forefinger, he poked it and pushed against it. The little nub-shaped organ quivered in response, growing and swelling under his touch until it was fully erect.
That done, Roger's fingers slipped down further, to the brunette's cunt hole. It was, as he'd hoped, dripping wet. First, he slid his index finger slowly inside of Karen's cunt hole, ramming it deep into the girl. The lubrication was complete. The tissues of the young girl's twat were swollen with passion, almost burningly hot to the touch.
Underneath his hand, Karen's hips rotated passionately. She was whimpering by now, increasingly lost in her own passion. And Roger was pretty hot himself. His cock was pulsating with her touch. If she kept it up for very long, he'd be shooting off soon over the both of them.
Roger rolled over on top of Karen, his cock pressed tight against her belly, his chest squashing her small, perfect tits, his large body almost completely covering his. It was his preliminary to fucking. In a few moments, he'd bury that huge wang of his in her hot, wet, hairy tunnel. Then, a few pumps and he'd drop a good-sized load of sticky, white cum in her twat. He itched to do it, holding himself back only because he knew that the longer he waited, the greater would be his release.
But finally his ability to restrain himself wore thin. He slouched down a few inches until the swollen head of his cock was pressed hard against the slippery opening of the young girl's twat. Clearly, she was anxious, too. She moved her hips around until the two of them were in exactly the right position to fuck. Then, she pushed.
Slowly, holding himself back as much as possible, Roger sank into the 15-year-old's cunt hole. It was remarkably warm, slippery and tight. It almost seemed as though she was a virgin, being taken for the very first time. Thrills shot through his enormous erected cock as the sensitive tissues on its underside scraped against the young girl's cunt hole. He felt the little quiverings and twitchings in his organ that signaled that the peak of excitement was near.
And then he began to slowly pump in and out of the girl, taking care to press hard against the girl's clit with each stroke. To his joy and delight, she responded almost immediately, her hips rising up to meet his pumping prick. He felt as though there was some kind of suction coming from Karen, drawing his organ deeper inside her, then deeper yet. Again and again, he rammed his cock into the slippery smoothness of her hot little cunt hole. In a few moments, he knew, he would be filling that opening with his creamy spunk, depositing a load of cum within the girl. He could feel his heart pounding with excitement. Here he was in the midst of a dirty old man's dream, a thirty-seven year old man, past his prime perhaps, humping away with a pretty young girl who could have been his daughter.
Beneath him, the girl was responding with unrestrained passion, her small, firm body twisting and turning, arching towards him and falling back, matching him stroke for stroke, her rhythm sublimely in tune with his.
The twitchings increased in tempo. If he kept on like this, he knew, it would only be a few minutes before he shot off like a rocket.
He heard something, some noise, coming from somewhere behind him. It was coming from the door. It was the lock. There was a key on the lock.
Roger stopped pumping instantly, as if he'd suddenly been struck with paralysis. What went through his mind at that moment was nothing less than total panic. His first fantasy: that Karen's parents, searching for her for weeks, months even, had finally found her. When they saw what he was doing. to her, they were sure to call the cops. The second fantasy was that it was the police themselves. They must often break into these tenements, searching for drugs. This time, they would find something else---and the girl was just 15, far below the age of consent. Then, his thoughts turned to other ideas. It was some intruder coming through that door, he guessed, some Hell's Angel type looking to steal everything in sight. He'd read that no one kept his possessions long if he lived in New York's East Village.
The truth, it turned out, was something far less disturbing than anything he'd imagined in those few seconds when the lock was being opened. The visitors were not visitors at all, but Karen's roommates, Jack and Lisa.
Karen didn't betray the slightest fright or disturbance. In fact, when her roommates came in and Roger tried to lift himself off of her, she held him tight, her arms preventing him from moving away.
"Hi," she called out gaily, her breath still short, "you're just in time."
Now what, Roger wondered to himself, could that mean?
"Hey," Jack said, "we got company."
"Yeah." said Lisa, "we're a foursome."
Jack broke out into uproarious laughter. "I thought for a moment you said foreskin," he finally explained, through tears of laughter.
Roger managed to disengage himself from Karen, at least enough to examine her roommates. Jack was a typical hippie-type, long, scraggly hair, a beard that made him look like Jesus, and a collection of clothing most mothers would have burned. Lisa, on the other hand, was lovely. She was tall, with long, straight blonde hair. She wore sandals that strapped up her calves and a flowered sack-like dress that wiggled revealingly where her tits were, obviously unrestrained by a bra. Both of them had a kind of glazed look. Roger was sure they were on drugs.
"Well, well," Lisa said, gazing at Roger, "a biggie. I just love biggies." She was clearly referring to Roger Dutton's cock. "Can I have him after you, Karen?"
Karen looked up at Roger, who was smiling, in a kind of Seventh Heaven. "Sure," she said, "why not?"
"Hey," Jack said, smiling stupidly, "in that case, I want you, Karen."
"Sure thing," Karen said. "But let's smoke first."
Roger knew exactly what that meant: marijuana, grass, pot, weed. Well, he thought, there's a first time for everything. Besides, a few puffs would never make him an addict.
Jack rummaged around in a little wooden box for a moment and came up with two oddly rolled cigarettes.
"Man," he said, handing one to Roger, "you just gotta try this stuff. One toke and your mind's blown. It's genuine Panamanian red."
"Well, I don't know."
"Come on, Man, it's not horse or coke. It's just grass. Try it. You'll feel groovy."
And so the four of them lit up and started smoking ---and drifting, off to that wonderful dreamland where all sounds were symphonies, all food and drink ambrosia, all sex ecstasy.
Sometime in the next few hours, they all disrobed. Roger sat for what seemed an eternity gazing at Lisa's melon shaped tits, tickling them with his forefingers, squeezing them gently and finally sucking, first on one, then on the other. Lisa just lay back, her eyes closed, the pulse in her neck visible, pounding quickly as her excitement grew.
It was the same with Jack and Karen. Roger missed that tight, hot cunt of Karen's, but now it was filled by another's cock. Jack was on top of her, pounding against her again and again like the waves against the shore. But this was not a passive shore content with being worn away. It pounded back, gasping, moaning, twisting, churning.
At one point, Roger roused Lisa so that they could both watch Karen's face. As Jack pumped into her, ramming his long, thin, heavily veined cock into her innards, her expression took on a kind of glow. There was a hint of a smile around her lips at first, but that gave way to open-mouthed pleasure.
Beside him, the two teenagers were fucking away full speed now, both of them fighting for breath. Roger gazed at Karen's face, watching with awe as it was overtaken by lust and desire, transformed from innocence into animality.
Then he felt a hand on his own huge hard-on. It was Lisa. What she had been watching had obviously roused her. "Come on, man" she said, "fuck me. Stick it in me."
She took his hand and placed it over her love-mound. Roger could feel the heat and moisture through his fingers. Her cunt hairs, blonde like the hair on her head, were tangled with wetness, the wetness of lust and desire. Slowly, ever so slowly, Roger pulled his attention away from Karen and Jack, his eyes turning at last to Lisa. In his drugged state, she seemed the Goddess of Love, the Earth-Woman. He mounted her. Her legs spread apart in greeting.
She was warmer, even than Karen, and far more moist. In fact, her lubrication was so copious he seemed to be swimming within her, stroking through the liquid evidence of her lust. She groaned as he entered her, but his mind was fixed to the sensations that were flooding through his cock. Under the influence of the drug he had smoked, it felt as large and long as a salami. And he felt as though he were splitting the girl in two with each stroke.
Lisa's reaction to Roger's pumping only provoked him more. She went far beyond Karen's simple moaning and groaning. He hadn't been stroking into her for more than a minute or two before she was letting out little screams of delight. Her body matched his rhythm, but she did even more, her entire frame quivering every time he rammed into her.
Beside them, Jack and Karen were fucking up a storm. Jack was lifting himself high, then dropping his full weight down on the slender young girl, panting like a grizzly bear in heat. Karen should have been in pain from all that pounding, but from the expression on her face and from the noises she was making, it was clear that pain was very far from her thoughts.
At that instant, Lisa added a new wrinkle to what she and Roger were doing. She began squeezing---almost vibrating---the muscles of her cunt together. Roger had I already been close to coming. This was the last straw. Entirely beyond his ability to prevent it, his prick began to pulsate, then quiver and jerk.
Finally, he felt it happening---his spunk was shooting out of his cock, spurting out again and again. He was filling the young girl with it. And she was responding in kind, her body shuddering in a series of jerks and twitches. She screamed Out in unrestrained delight---several times.
Beside him, he heard Karen join the fun, her voice turning into a kind of lulling whimper. At the same moment, Jack groaned loudly. Everyone, it seemed, had reached total satisfaction.
Roger drifted off after that. They all did, evidently. But, an hour or two later, he woke up. He was alone on the mattress. Jack was sleeping in a corner, curled up like a fetus. But neither of the girls were in sight. Roger got dressed quietly. He was about to leave when he heard Karen giggling in the other room. He tiptoed over. And looked in.
The two girls were still naked, lying on the apartment's other mattress. They were vigorously sixty-nining. He watched for awhile, very appreciatively. Then, just as he decided to leave, Karen accidentally looked his way.
"Roger," she said, "are you leaving already?"
"I think so," he said.
Lisa twisted her head. around. "Bye now,' she said. "Remember us."
"How could I ever forget?" He said.
He was hoping for more conversation, perhaps an invitation to join the two girls, but he never got it. Instead, both of them turned back to one another. It wasn't long before he felt like an intruder in the room. Roger went for the door. In moments, he was back on the street. It was mid-day and the sun was shining brightly, enough to hurt his eyes. He was out in reality now, away from the dream. Had it ever happened? No matter, it was already a memory, firm and clear, and he could refer to it anytime he wanted.